Wait
by HI MY NAME IS uncool
Summary: In which one mother is dead and one daughter is transplanted, against her will, to live in New York City. It will take something amazing to break her out of her tragedy - four turtle brothers might just do the trick.
1. Empty

"...Something has left my life,  
>And I don't know where it went to.<br>Somebody caused me strife,  
>And it's not what I was seeking..."<br>_– Empty; The Cranberries_

I was tired. I wanted nothing more than to sleep through this nightmare and wake up to my mother nudging open my bedroom door. Simon Devine, the ever-present pillar of strength to my left, laced his fingers through mine. He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. Our nail polish matched; chipped black was all the rage among the disaffected youth.

"You gonna be okay, Taxi?" He breathed in my ear and I shook my head. Myca Thompson, on my right, bumped her foot discreetly against mine to show her support. I did not return the gesture. Sitting between my boyfriend of two years and best friend of seven, I felt alone, encased in an unfeeling bubble of silence.

I leaned forward slightly to look past Simon and study his younger brother. Tobias sat with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. His black, shaggy bangs shadowed his closed eyes. I watched him, as speaker after speaker dissolved into tears, until he finally glanced my way. Neither of us smiled, but our stares held. The slightly haunted glaze of his gaze kept me grounded.

I was drowning in a sea of mourning relatives. They all watched me, the illegitimate daughter of Viviane Potter, and begged for a reaction. They wanted me to do something outrageous like scream, or cry, make a delicious scene of tortured teenage hood. All I wanted to do was sleep. Or euthanize myself with a nail gun. Both options were applicably nice.

A dry scream scratched its way up my throat as my mother – my mom, my momma, my _mommy_ – was lowered into the ground. Simon wrapped his arm around my shoulders in his indirectly possessive way. With a blank stare, I watched as the first shovelful of dirt landed on the casket. A dirt clod exploded like a blood splatter on contact. Myca drew in a shaky breath and Tobias touched his index and middle fingers to his forehead in a silent, respectful goodbye.

Simon slipped his arm to my waist and drew me into his chest. Robotically, I wound my arms around him and hid my face in his neck. He rubbed my back, trying to soothe me, and told me it was okay to cry. I nodded and wondered if it was also okay not to cry. I scrunched the material of his thrift store jacket in my fingers and inhaled his cologne deeply. The heavy male scent curled in my lungs, like a constant reminder of his undying love.

Myca hugged me from the side, enveloping both Simon and me with her motherly arms; she was shaking and crying into my hair. I felt like I was suffocating in them both. Tobias lingered awkwardly off to the side, with his fists jammed in his trouser pockets. He had said his farewells and was ready to leave. Finally, we broke apart. Myca trailed one hand through my hair and squeezed my shoulder.

Simon kissed me on the cheek and rubbed his nose against mine. "Come on," he finally spoke as he once again took my hand in his, "let's go to my place." I didn't have the energy to argue. Myca came up beside me, taking my other hand. Tobias coughed in the back of his throat and trailed along behind us, dragging his feet and scuffing his funeral shoes.

No one talked as the November wind blew around us. Trees mirrored my feelings, as dead branches scraped at the clouds. I wondered if Mom could feel their scratches. Then I wondered if I even believed in heaven. I stared up at the sky, trusting my friends to lead me, and prayed for it to crash down on us. Birds fell silent as we passed, and I nodded a thanks their way. They started screeching in the dying sunlight when we reached the Devine house.

Tobias pushed open the screen door, letting us file by him before slamming it shut. It left an undying echo in the deserted street. My boyfriend told us to go on down to the basement, and he headed to his room to change. The basement had been converted, not too many years ago, into a teenage hang-out. There was a couch, a well-stocked mini-fridge, a guitar and amp, and a large-screen TV – all for the use of the Devine brothers and company.

Myca tucked her knees up under her dress and curled into herself on a bean bag chair. I sat down rigidly on the couch with my feet planted solidly in the carpet and my fingers twitching in my lap. From a random cabinet, Tobias extracted a candle (kept down there in case of a power outage) and a black permanent marker. Crookedly, he wrote the initials _V P _on the candle with his left hand and jammed it into an ill-fitting holder. Flicking a lighter out of his pocket, he ignited the wick.

"It's so she can find her way back," he murmured with a shrug as he set the memorial on the coffee table next to the couch. "Sorry," he said quietly. I wanted to reassure him that I wasn't offended by his make-shit eternal flame. It was the kind of thing my mother would've liked; she appreciated the awkward kindness of the youngest Devine. I tried to smile, but Simon came thundering down the stairs before I could fix the expression on my face.

He looked more relaxed, in a baggy pair of jeans and an old Alkaline Trio tee. It was one I had given him for Christmas two years ago. He leaned over the back of the couch to hug my shoulders. Burying his face in my neck, he inhaled deeply and hummed. Myca dug her fingernails into her scalp and Tobias tried to send me a message with his eyes. He twisted the lighter around in his fingers, alternatively igniting and extinguishing it with a solid click.

Simon tightened his grip on my shoulders fractionally. "Let's go to my room." He led me upstairs by the hand; my skirts rustled dryly against my legs as I walked. Something about all of this – sneaking off to my boyfriend's house for an illicit coupling while my visiting family ate cake and told stories about my mother – seemed ridiculous. Tobias and Myca were still in the basement, probably staring at but not seeing the TV while they pretended to know no better about what Simon and I were doing directly two stories above their heads. I, myself, was pretending to know no better.

Even that sick fuck who was too strung out to see the light was red was pretending to know no better. He continued to pretend when he rammed into us and sent my head slamming into the glove compartment and then my mother was sent flying like she had wings but she didn't really have wings so she flew and flew until she fell and –

"Hey," Simon locked the door behind us and smiled at me. I shrugged and stared at him through a curtain of stringy, unwashed hair. "I'm really sorry about your mom." I closed my eyes and shrugged again. Simon made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and put his hands on my shoulders. "I love you," he whispered and pulled me against his chest.

Through the whole act, I never said it in return. I didn't resist as he guided me gently to his bed. I didn't fight him as he settled himself between my legs and kissed me and bunched my skirt up to my waist and hitched my knees over his hips. I allowed him to pose me like I was a mannequin – a sex mannequin. He was tender, moving against me and breathing in my ear.

My arms were sprawled limply over my head and I stared at the ceiling beyond his shoulder, trying to erase the image of my lovely mother's cadaver on the freeway.

It took him ten minutes and he didn't wear a condom so he had to pull out before he could actually finish. I turned away as he slipped into the bathroom to take care of himself. I lost my virginity on the day of my mother's funeral. I didn't even feel anything.

Simon came back from the bathroom, flushed and slightly out of breath. He sat down next to me on the bed and tried to pet my hair. After a moment, he lay down and curled into me. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Taxi Potter." Five minutes later, I left. I felt like I should be crying, or having some kind of fit, but nothing came.

Myca was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She trailed after me as I shuffled down the sidewalk and took my hand. "Did you do it?" Her voice wasn't accusing, but I almost wished it was. I shrugged and stared down at my feet. Simon and I hadn't even removed our shoes.

"Taxi?" I glanced at her – took in the motherly glint of her gaze and nodded unenthusiastically before focusing back on the gray cement. "How was it?" She whispered, like a child, and when I didn't answer, Myca let go of my hand. I continued to walk without her.

Myca Thompson was molested when she was nine years old. It left her both terrified of and captivated by sex.

My aunt was waiting for me when I got home, still wearing her baggy funeral dress. She and my mother had been identical twins so it was a little difficult to look her in the face. She motioned for me to take a seat in the chair opposite her at the kitchen table. I wasn't even sore from Simon – it was as if it had never happened. I couldn't even picture his face as he held me.

"Taxi, honey, we need to talk." I felt blank inside, either from the sex of the funeral – it was hard to determine. She reached across the surface of the table to cover my hand with hers and smiled. Her expression became strained and almost forced when I didn't reciprocate. "Your father didn't come to the funeral," she paused and waited for a reaction.

I gave her none.

"And no one has heard from him in almost ten years," she stopped again. I focused on the grain in the table, trying to memorize it. "So, we've all decided it's best if you come with your uncle and me. To live in New York." I shrugged and slipped my hand out from under hers. "We have the room," Auntie continued, "because Jackie's at college in Cali." She said it like she was a native. "That's why she couldn't make it today." The lame excuse rolled off my shoulders and landed somewhere on the floor. "Anyway, we're leaving for the city in a few days." She waited until I looked her in the eye before finishing, "does that give you enough time to pack?"

"I guess."

"Taxi, honey," she replaced her hand on mine and curled her thumb under my palm so I couldn't escape. "I know you miss her. You had such a close relationship with my sister; I did too." Another scream was building inside me. I swallowed hard and struggled to breathe. My aunt's pity was suffocating. "Maybe we can help each other heal."

"Okay."

My response was avoidant, and she picked up on the tension in my voice. "You look so much like her, you know." That meant a lot, coming from my mother's twin. The urge to flee hit me hard in the chest and I bowed my head. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," Auntie cooed and I ripped my hand out from under hers. Seduction, I could handle, but pity was too much. The chair flipped over hard as I ran to my room.

Midnight found me lying on the floor of my room. I was curled up on my side and my throat burned. One arm was tucked under my head and I tried to think about how it felt when Simon was inside of me. All I could picture was the path of cracked ceiling. I gave up and drummed my fingers against my carpet. I wondered what my mother's voice sounded like.

My aunt and uncle were asleep in the guest room down the hall. I could hear their quiet breathing and distantly hated them for the ease that they found sleep. I sat up and drew my legs to my chest. Loosely, I laced my fingers together and rested my hands on my bare feet. I was still wearing the dress from the funeral. It was wrinkled, but familiarly so, like a disfigured, childhood teddy bear. I rested my forehead on my knees and fantasized about my mother dying and what it would've been like if I had been in her place.

I fell asleep early that morning thinking about blood and head trauma.

Auntie looked ready to burst into tears at the sight of my day-old outfit and rumbled appearance. "Taxi, why don't you take a shower?" She pleaded not unkindly, and I complied. "You'll feel better, and then I can help you pack." She guided me to the bathroom, where a fresh pair of towels sat conspiratorially on the counter.

Before I continued in the ritual of cleansing my body, I shuffled to my room. I picked out clean underwear, a faded Alkaline Trio shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. All were black, even my under things. Auntie poked her head around the corner as I padded back to the bathroom, arms laden with replacement clothing. Her eyes narrowed at the choice of color, but said nothing. I should have known; my cousin was partial to green and yellow.

The water was supposed to be warm, but it felt icy cold. Shivering slightly, I adjusted the temperature. My arms and chest turned bright pink, as I cooked myself alive in the shower, but all I felt was the frigid chill. The hope of my exhaustion washing down the drain with the soap suds was lost with my drooping eye lids. The shampoo and body wash helped to rejuvenate me only a little.

Wiping at the mirror, I inspected myself in the steam-cleared streak. My hair – now clean – still hung around my face, limp and dead. My eyes held the ever-present haunting shadow and the skin surrounding them was deathly pale. Not all the make-up had been removed, but it didn't matter. I was just going to apply more.

Deciding that mirrors were highly overrated, I went about redressing myself. The clean material was refreshingly rough against my raw skin. Auntie was waiting for me when I opened the door. It took most of my self control not to push her away when she hugged me. She wore the same face powder as my mother.

"There now, don't you feel better?" I shrugged; the urge to talk was once again not present. "Come now, let's go pack up your room!" Her cheerful voice was betrayed by the pain in her eyes. A small stack of flattened boxes was waiting for us upstairs. We spent the first hour or so going through my wardrobe. Eventually, Auntie got discouraged by all the dark colors and decided to hunt down Mom's old family photo albums.

With my radio playing softly in the background, I folded blouse after t-shirt after pants. I made a pile of old skirts and dresses to donate to charity and felt oddly satisfied with my good deed for the week. The rest of the work was mind numbing and repetitive. I used my set of personal journals and notebooks to strengthen the bottom of a cardboard box. Carefully, I stacked my collection of novels like bricks on top of them; I made sure to pack in such a way that no cover was folded and no page was dog-eared. All of this writing (my own and that of great minds before me) would carry me through the next few hellish months of adjustment.

I sat on my knees next to the filled box for a moment, tracing my fingers over the slightly raised cover of _A Clockwork Orange _and I found myself wondering if there was a library in heaven, and if they carried Anthony Burgess. Shaking my head abruptly, I folded the flaps closed and moved on to organize my CDs. I was halfway through my substantial musical library when Auntie knocked on my door softly.

"Taxi," a myriad of spices and other sweet scents floated in with her voice. She was cooking – it was a nervous tick of hers, Mom used to tell me, to cook when she felt emotional. "Simon's on asking for you," she offered the phone with an oven mitt protected hand. I took it from her without blinking.

"Simon," I greeted as she closed the door. I could hear her retreating down the hall, back to the kitchen and her recipes.

"Hi Taxi Cab!" I sighed at the childhood nickname. Myca used to call me that when we were in elementary school and she let it slip maybe a year ago. Since then, he'd use it in conversation when he was feeling particularly jubilant. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay."

"You're not sore, are you?" He asked it quietly, almost shamefully. If I was in the business of emotions, I'm sure I would have felt touched by his concern. I shook my head, and he must have heard the rustle of my hair against the mouth piece because he picked up talking. "That's good. I really wanted your first time to be, y'know, special." It was, Simon, it really, really was. I always wanted to lose my virginity the same day my mother was buried six feet under.

"I'm okay."

He glossed over my repetition with ease. "Do you want to come over tonight? Momma's making Italian and she said you could stay for dinner. I think she wants to just have one last night with you, y'know?" Mrs. Devine was rather fond of me, as far as mothers are for their eldest son's girlfriend, and her cooking really did live up to her surname. Then I caught the underlying suggestion of his tone. He wanted a repeat of yesterday afternoon.

"I can't."

"Oh," he sounded genuinely disappointed, but he tried to mask it. "That's cool; you probably have packing to do, right?" Somehow, my boyfriend inherently knew that I wasn't going to be staying in the suburbs of Kingston – I don't remember explicitly telling him that.

"Yeah."

"All right, well, I guess I'll call you tomorrow, or something." I shrugged and he cleared his throat. "Bye Taxi." I heard him inhale nervously with shaking breath. "I love you." I didn't answer and he hung up before I formulate an appropriate response. Finally, I settled on telling the empty dial tone, for the third time, that I was okay. I held the phone to my ear, clutching it in my numb hands until a ringing came over the airwaves.

A recording of an overly cheerful operator informed me that no connection had been made, but if I so wished to dial a number could I please hang up and try again. The voice thanked me and hung up. Dead quiet reigned again. My response was a choked, almost pleading whisper.

"I'm okay."

I felt tired again, and my head was fuzzy with unbidden thoughts and a dull pounding bass line. I crawled to my mattress and tried to burrow under the sheets. I pulled a blanket over my head, leaving my feet uncovered and I buried my face in my pillow; my breathing was heavy in my ears. The constant rasp of inhaling and exhaling lulled me into an unsettling sleep.

I dreamed I was wandering through the car crash scene that stole my mother's life. The larcenist of a crime scene. I picked over the broken glass; I saw myself unconscious in the front seat. A bruise was already blooming on my forehead and a trickle of blood dripped from my hairline. The driver's chair was empty and a gaping hole was chewed out of the windshield. Crystals of glass glistened on the dashboard like a jewelry display.

I wanted to walk around the front of the crushed vehicle to see my mother but Simon caught my elbow. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He picked me up and unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped his fly and we made love against the side of my mother's totaled car. Even though I couldn't feel anything, I was moaning and there a shock of blush across my cheeks. His arms braced me and I crossed my ankles behind his back. The whole time, my mother was dying not feet away.

(Scene)  
>End Chapter One)<p>

I supposed you could say this is Deadly v 2.0. The original Deadly is still posted on my profile; I'm keeping it around for comparison sake, I guess. Some lines (and even whole paragraphs) were taken directly from the first copy. I've truncated some scenes and elongated others. Let me know what you think of the changes – specifically one very, very big one.

I don't own the lyrics used in the beginning, and I don't own the turtles four. Taxi, Myca, Tobias, Simon and all other related folk are mine. I will fight to keep them.


	2. A Perfect Sonnet

"...Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror,  
>And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever,<br>And now you're laying in a bathtub full of freezing water,  
>Wishing you were a ghost..."<br>_– A Perfect Sonnet; Bright Eyes_

Auntie woke me up later that night. She frowned a little regretfully when she realized she had interrupted my afternoon nap. I wanted to tell her that it was all right and I didn't mind. Instead, I shrugged and shook my hair out of my eyes as I trailed behind her to the kitchen. Some sort of baked pasta dish was waiting for us on the table. My uncle was in the city; he had been called away for an emergency business to-do an hour after the funeral so it was just my aunt and me in the house. He was going to come down in about two days to pick us up.

She scooped a healthy spoonful of noodles, cheese and rich tomato sauce onto my plate. I took a hesitant bite and nearly burnt my tongue. With watering eyes, I swallowed. Auntie leaned forward in her chair, smiling thirstily. "How is it?" I twitched my head to one side and stared, captivated, at the underside of my wrist. That seemed to satisfy her and she sat back in her chair. I didn't look at her as she continued to talk.

"Well, I called Jackie's old high school." I etched random lines in the sauce with the prongs of my fork with one hand and scratched at my neck with the other. "So, you're all set and registered. I just put you in the same classes you're taking, I hope that's okay." Shrugging, I let the utensil clatter to the plate loudly. Auntie's mouth closed with a snap. The meal continued in silence and I felt a little bit like a bitch.

I returned to my quickly emptying room after dinner. While my nap hadn't refreshed me in the conventional sense, it served to sate my body's seemingly unquenchable thirst for sleep. I plugged my ear bud headphones into my mp3 player and slid the volume to a pity below maximum – the morbidly clever lyrics served to distract me just enough so I could pretend I had forgotten that my mother was dead and I was leaving my home of eighteen years the day after tomorrow.

The ruse lasted only through the first two tracks. My hands itched and I nearly punched through the off button. I breathed heavily through my nose as I paced across my room. My fingers twitched and drummed against my thighs in frustration. Finally, I slipped to the floor and covered my mouth with my forearm.

Like a wounded animal, I curled into myself, hiding my face in my up-drawn legs and pressing down on the back of my skull with shaking hands. For the first time in the week since my mother died, I cried. I bit down savagely on my knee to muffle my gasping sobs. I dug my fingernails into the thick skin of my scalp and I rocked back and forth, whimpering pitifully. I was literally suffocating in my grief.

My crying episode offered no reprieve. Mentally blacking out for about an hour wouldn't bring Mom back – it left me emotionally drained with a sticky face. Disinterested, I wiped at my cheek with my sleeve. No burdensome weight was lifted from my frail, delicate shoulders. I felt no different; my mouth was dry and my throat burned distantly. The insides of my wrists felt cold, neglected and unfulfilled.

Scratching idly at my palm, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Flecks of ice bloomed on my ankles as I watched the play of colors blur from darkness to frigid gray. It was the second night that I spent on the floor of my room.

Auntie knocked on my door two hours after sunrise. I must have fallen asleep because I jerked spasmodically at the sudden noise. I greeted her with purposefully wide eyes. "Good morning Taxi," she bubbled cheerily with caked on make-up. "I'm just going through some of Vivi's stuff," she chirped happily with a hint of tears, "to sort out what to donate to charity. I just wanted to know if you wanted anything of hers." She cocked her head with an almost violent smile.

I stared at her for a long moment until I reached the conclusion that she probably slept less than I had the previous night. Briefly I wondered if she had heard my fit. I shook my head in a negative response to her question, even though I secretly wanted to paw through my mother's belongings. I wondered if she kept any journals that I could read. I was about to close the door when she peered over my shoulder curiously.

"Oh, you're not done with your packing, are you?" I shrugged and picked idly at my elbow. My clothes were folded and ready to be crammed in a cardboard box; there was just one more load of laundry to be sorted. "I think there's some of your stuff in the drier, actually," she mused and tapped her chin with a manicured finger. "I'll go grab it and then I can help you finish pack, okay?" She smiled and almost skipped down the hall.

I wondered how long it would take before the poor woman acknowledged her grief. Granted, it hadn't helped much for me, but my aunt was normal. The standard stages of mourning would probably help her on the way to recovery.

She reappeared with a half-full laundry basket tucked under her arm. I stepped out of her way as she bustled past. It was a little eerie seeing my mother's double tutting around my room. I watched her as she started folding t-shirts. "Do you have anything breakable we can put in with your clothes? These shirts will protect fragile knick-knacks wonderfully." Slightly unnerved, I retrieved my old crystal jewelry box from my desk and unhooked some of Myca's framed photographs from the wall. Wordlessly, I handed her the requested objects. "You don't have much stuff, do you?" She observed kindly as she packed the jewelry box.

"I don't shop much." I muttered with a shrug as I looked at my laptop, where it sat on my desk. That would go in my back pack, I decided quietly in the back of my mind.

"Well," Auntie babbled, "we're going to have to change that. There are so many nice stores in the city. I'll turn you into a shopping fanatic in no time!" I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She was using an oversized sweatshirt to wrap a particularly poetic black and white shot of smeared, dotted lights from an extended exposure of cars zooming by.

Myca had captured the moment when we visited New York City last year, for the freshmen class trip. We had sneaked away from our group to buy hotdogs and then got lost on the subway and ended up in China Town. Mom couldn't wait to hear about our adventures when we got home. Mrs. Thompson was a little less enthusiastic about our rebellious behavior.

I followed Auntie's example and used two t-shirts to cushion a colored print of clouds reflected in the mirrored side of a skyscraper. "Taxi?" Her voice made me pause. "Is it ever going to get better?" My aunt sounded utterly defeated and I squeezed my eyes shut against her vulnerability. Instead of replying, I gnawed on my lower lip and finished packing away my CDs.

I never did answer her.

In the span of two days, I consolidated my life into four categories: clothes and breakables, books and music. Laughable, that almost two decades could be boiled down so simply and, yet, there it was. Everything I had done up until that moment fit in three cardboard boxes. Auntie took the liberty of returning all my textbooks to my old high school. I'm sure the secretary simpered appropriately when she heard about my plight. Myca, Tobias and Simon came by as my uncle pulled in to the driveway. He and Auntie loaded up the car while we said our farewells.

"Hi Taxi Cab," Myca whispered as she held my hands. I tried to smile for her, but failed. With a tug on my arms, she pulled me to her and held me tightly. "Don't forget to write me, okay?" It didn't seem the right time to point out that I was only three hours away so I nodded against her neck and she let out a watery laugh. "Love you, kiddo." She petted my hair as we separated.

"You too, Myca."

Simon was next. He literally crushed me against him, pinning my arms to my sides with his grip. "I wish we had more time," he rasped in my ear as he kissed my cheek. He pulled back fractionally and took my face in his hands, searching my eyes. "I love you, so much." In front of everyone, he kissed me on the mouth. "Love you," he murmured against my lips. I nodded, not having the voice to return the sentiment. Finally, he took a step back and turned his head to one side, staring violently at something in the distance.

"Here," Tobias awkwardly shoved a CD in my hands. It was a burned disc, which he had titled _Not Goodbye_ in his uneven scrawl. He coughed and rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced cautiously at his brother before lowering his voice, "he doesn't deserve you." I held the gift in both hands and smiled quietly as he added gruffly, "you're too good for him."

"Thanks Toby."

My uncle came up behind me and rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. I barely blinked as he announced, with a note of regret, "time to go, Taxi." My three friends of eternity piled on me for one last group hug before I was herded off into the car. They waited on the sidewalk as we backed out of the driveway. They might have waved as we drove off, but I was too busy staring at my lap to see.

An unrecognizable singer warbled softly on the radio and I turned Tobias's gift around in my hands. My aunt twisted around in her seat and smiled at me. "That Simon sure is handsome," she observed with a wink and I shrugged in response. "How long have you two been together?" I could tell she was hoping I'd open up to her. She craved the close relationship she shared with my cousin. I wished I could have given it to her. I stared out the window, at the blurring scenery. Trees melted and bled together in greenish smudges. I unfocused my eyes and lost track of time.

About an hour later, I snapped to attention. "Taxi," Uncle looked at me in the rear view mirror. It was the first time he had directly addressed me since the funeral; I blinked to let him know I was listening. "You want to stop somewhere to get lunch?" I shrugged. "We can stop anywhere you want." The fatigue ate away at me, daring my eyes to close. I shrugged my shoulders and shut my eyes. Some time after exit 217, I drifted off.

We pulled into the parking lot behind the apartment complex when the sun was high in the sky. My stomach was empty, much like my thoughts. I had spent most of the drive in a half-conscious, barely connected state. Everything about me felt two-dimensional as I clamored gracefully out of the back seat. A dull throb of pain echoed through my skull and I rubbed the back of my head with one fist. Auntie and Uncle began unloading the car. There was enough that between the three of us, we managed to carry everything in one trip.

Their apartment was small, but cozy and well-meaning. While I didn't feel immediately at ease, hovering in the doorway with my arms full, I wasn't unwelcome. Auntie nudged me inside by bumping my back gently with her load. "Home sweet home," she chirped as she brushed past me.

I trailed after her down a hall to Jackie's old room. My cousin had left her bed, dresser and desk behind when she went to college, so that was well handled. Uncle had made it in before us and my books were waiting for me at the foot of my bed. "There now," Auntie said as she deposited her box on the floor. I followed her example as she put her hands on her hips and smiled, as if we had accomplished something amazing together. "If you want, we can redo the walls – get some nice wallpaper or maybe a fresh coat of paint. What do you think, Tax?"

I shrugged.

Not too long after, Auntie left me to unpack. It was Sunday, which meant the school week was quite nearly upon me. I relocated my clothes to the dresser and hammered nails into the wall for my photos. Deciding to leave my books and CDs sealed away for the time being, I flopped sideways across my new bed, so that one foot hung off the side of the mattress, and tried to familiarize myself with the ceiling. I folded my hands on my stomach and wondered where my appetite had gone. My throat hurt and I grimaced as I swallowed. I drifted off with my lower lip caught between my teeth and woke up early the next morning with the taste of blood in my mouth and half-moon nail indentations carved into my palms.

Across the room, the clock radio on Jackie's desk blinked the time in neon blue numbers; 7:03AM. School didn't start for another two hours. From the single window in the room, I could see the building's parking lot and, beyond that, foggy, half-formed shadows of the city streets. Uncle's car was already gone, driving to a pre-dawn business meeting. I wasn't even sure what he did for a living, but it required a lot of early mornings and late nights. I just hoped it didn't involve his secretary and an office desk.

Stuttering into the adjoining bathroom, I flicked on the lights and flinched at the clinical brightness. My mud-puddle eyes squinted back at me and I quickly focused my attention on something other than my ghostly reflection. An unused toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging, beckoned with its bright blue handle to be used.

Blue like the numbers of the digital clock, I noted as I searched through the medicine cabinet for toothpaste. Hiding behind a stack of clean, faintly musty towels, I found an unopened box. It was expired past a year, but I didn't care as I squeezed some out on the bristles of my toothbrush. I spat in the sink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Even fresh off the assembly line toothpaste wouldn't make me feel clean.

I shuffled back to Jackie's room and shucked off my shirt. From the second drawer, I unearthed a slightly form-fitting top. I tugged it over my head and pulled the long sleeves over my hands before smoothing the material over my ribs. I dug a rolled-up pair of socks out the top drawer and rescued my black converse shoes from under the bed. As I tied my sneakers to my feet, the clock helpfully supplied the time: 7:27AM. Half past seven and already my head was starting to throb. It was going to be a long morning.

Auntie force-fed me some dry toast. I dipped the bread in my black coffee and munched it with disinterest. She flitted around the kitchen, talking excitedly about Sugar Maple High, my new school. Apparently, Jackie had loved the four years she spent there. My cousin was the captain of the cheer squad (her parents still had a photograph of her posing in her uniform hanging on the wall), voted prom queen her senior year and was, quite possibly, the most popular girl at school. Swallowing the last bit of crust, I made a specific mental note not to be like Jackie.

Half an hour later, I found myself hovering outside a room full of children I could only assume would soon become my peers. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply; my headache from early still hadn't dissipated. With a soft noise of discomfort, I tightened my hold on the notebooks in my arms and tried not to sigh as the teacher greeted me with a kind smile and ushered me into her class.

"This is Taxi Potter," she introduced me with a shiny voice. "You can pick any open seat you want," she offered sympathetically. It wasn't ever easy transferring to a new school half-way through the year and I wasn't anticipating a warm welcome. I didn't have to look up from my shoes to know that at least twenty-five pairs of eyes were staring at me as I shuffled to a desk in the back corner. Someone snickered as I stumbled over an errant backpack blocking my way.

"Psst," a voice hissed as I dropped my messenger bag on the floor and sat down. I turned to address the speaker, a vicious looking blonde girl with a sweet smile and calculating stare. Deciding she wasn't worth my time, I leaned my pounding head against the wall with a sigh. "Hey, Cabbie, I'm talking to you." What witty intelligence it took to make fun of my name. When I didn't respond, she rolled her eyes with a lip-curling huff. Sugar Maple High wasn't known for the brilliance of its attendees, obviously.

Second period was spent in the same manner. The teacher tried to force me to make an introduction, but when my sole response was a singular shrug, he gave up and instructed me to sit where ever I wanted. When I had the option, I took a desk in the back of the room, preferably in a protected corner. By fourth period, word had spread among the students that I was better left alone. A few kids in the vicinity of my seat actually scooted away. In all honestly, I didn't blame them. Had I the option, I would've scooted away from myself too.

Lunch was, in the most simple of single-syllable words, hell. The food Auntie packed for me was thrown in the trash; I couldn't stomach the thought of consuming anything at the moment. Some girl whispered about anorexia as I shuffled away from the trash can. It was a shame the faculty was being so lenient on me; I could have used the spare time to do homework. On second thought, I mused as I eyed my Calculus book, maybe not. Mostly everyone within ten feet of my table was whispering and staring at me.

Sighing wearily, I rested my head on my folded hands. My eyes and throat hurt and my forehead felt a little clammy. Desperately, I wished for Myca. Despite the fact that we were roughly the same age (I was older by three months), she tended to play mother hen to my and Tobias's chicks. In her opinion, Simon was more than capable of taking care of himself. I sighed and wondered what my old friends were doing. Toby was probably taking notes in his freshman science class; Myca was more than likely working on a photojournalism project; Simon was possibly finishing up some last minute senior math homework, if he even decided to attend school. Against my better judgment, I glanced upward and wondered what Mom was doing.

I really hoped she wasn't watching over me as I surrendered to the decay of apathy.

In sixth period, I asked the teacher if I could leave early to go to the nurse; the itch in my throat hadn't abated and my head was still a little woozy. She nodded with sad eyes as she wrote out a pass. The nurse looked me at the with the same sad eyes as she told me wasn't authorized to give me any pain medication unless my parents brought a bottle up to the school that she could keep for me in her office. She seemed genuine when she rubbed my shoulder and said she was sorry. I shrugged and went to last period.

Creative Writing was okay; the teacher didn't tip-toe around me. She did ask for my name a few times, as if she couldn't believe I was actually named for a public transportation service. Most of my teachers, and a lot of the students, had trouble digesting that fact too. With a shrug, I took a seat in the back of the classroom and she began explaining our assignment. It was an exercise in exploring point of view; we were supposed to write a scene from one character's perspective and then write that same scene from another character's perspective. Simple enough, I supposed.

However, as I stared down at my blank paper, nothing came to mind. The pen was still in my hand, poised for me to bleed out my thoughts, but no such thoughts were born. Sighing, I dropped my writing utensil and folded my arms on my desk to use as a pillow. I scratched idly at the back of my skull and thought about how it felt when Mom hugged me.

I couldn't even remember what we were talking about when she died.

Teacher hovered over my desk when she realized that I hadn't written anything. Gently, she put her hand on my upper back. "You don't have to write if you're not in the mood," she spoke with a quiet voice. I nodded and she patted my shoulder once before drifting off to help some other creatively stunted soul. I spent the last twenty minutes of class trying to recreate the sound of Mom's voice when she said my name.

The trill of the bell bounced around the soulless halls and, seconds later, doors were flung open as a flood of students filled the once empty spaces. I shuffled along in the mass of teenagers as they pushed past me cruelly, knocked their elbows against my ribs and bumped my knees with their messenger bags. I sighed and jammed my hands in my pockets – a move reminiscent of the youngest Devine brother. Kicking at the scuffed tile floor, I continued my meaningless gait to the streets of New York.

The sidewalk was no less crowded, with packs of kids running off in all directions. Three boys to my left were screaming excitedly about a new computer game that was coming out the next week; five girls standing on the corner were giggling about the hottest Hollywood eye candy. I closed my eyes and allowed the swell of the traffic and pedestrian symphony to swallow me whole as I put my best foot forward, hopefully into oncoming traffic.

Regretfully, a rude grip on my elbow jerked me back. "Careful, punk," a gruff voice barked in my ear. I rolled my eyes at my would-be savior, a tall, over-muscled guy with shaggy, dark hair. Every mother's dream. His good deed done for the year, he let go of my arm and ambled on his way, muttering "dumb kids."

'Sad truth of it,' I mused as I studied the DO NOT WALK sigh, 'is that I'm not stupid – just suicidal.'

When I made it back to the apartment, I sat down at Jackie's desk and took out a sheet of notebook paper. It was high time I wrote a letter back home and I managed to express my conflicting emotions with short one short statement and a single query, as well as the obligatory greeting and farewell.

_Myca,  
>Considering killing self. Any thoughts?<br>Love, Taxi._

Myca's reply came within the next week. While it was short and lacking in true substance, she conveyed her point with succinctness.

_Taxi –  
>Yeah. Don't do it.<br>Cheers, Myca._

Against my better judgment, I took her advice.

(Scene)  
>(End Chapter Two)<p>

Was that some Casey Jones? That might have been some Casey Jones. I don't own him, by the way. April can have the boy – he's all hers. Once again, I don't own the lyrics used in the beginning of this chapter. I own Taxi, Myca, Tobias, Simon and basically everyone not seen in the TMNT universe. Hooray for original characters.


	3. 5 3 10 4

"...Schoolyard freaks are freezing, pushed to the ground again  
>I'm looking up and west for black to fill the sky<br>The sound of bottles breaking still breaking in my ears  
>They opened just in time to empty out<br>And gouge away the years..."  
><em>– 5-3-10-4; Alkaline Trio<em>

My head hit the desk with smack that was far louder than I had intended it to be. The thud served only to increase the dull thrum resonating within my skull. It also caused the boy in the next chair over to squeak and edge away from me. A random girl in front of him huffed and spat a venomous glare my way. I moaned in the back of my throat and closed my eyes.

The nagging exhaustion still plagued me, even though it was almost two months since I had moved in with my aunt and uncle. My playground reputation, shaped by my non-responsive shrugs and uncomfortable silences, was that of a social outcast. The Pretty Elite – my own, not so clever nickname for the popular crowd – made sure to perpetuate this image. Rumors had spread by my second week that I was cultivating extensive hit lists. A palpable nervousness settled over the cafeteria whenever I entered, as if all occupants expected me to suddenly whip out a gun and waste them all. I was never a fan of violence, but the fact that my patience was constantly tested with indignities could easily change my mind.

Uncle managed to find excuses to stay out later and later, as to not suffer through awkward meals and Auntie managed to convince herself that I was doing better, as the wound of seeing my mother die slowly healed. It was no small blessing then, that she failed to notice I kept the light on in Jackie's room every night. Darkness was no longer a comfort to me. I was unable to simply be in the dark; I was stifled by the fleeting images of my mother mangled on the street. The light made it more difficult for me to sleep, more difficult for me to remember.

Consequently, the lack of sleep was taking its toll on my sanity. To promote my learning, most of my teachers moved me to the front of the room.

"Potter!" Mr. Teacher snarled from his podium. He must have known that I was incapable of paying attention in his class; he made it a point to call on me at least once a day. I raised my head and blinked stupidly. "Do you even know what's going on right now?" I mumbled a negative and dropped my head back to my desk. The fake wood felt deliciously cool against my cheek. He almost broke the dry erase board marker in anger. "That's the third time this week, Potter." I didn't understand why male teachers felt the need to address students solely by their last names or by their sex. "Girl, you've just earned yourself detention."

I moaned in mild disappointment as my classmates snickered. Though, the detention was an excuse to spend the rest of the period sleeping. I closed my eyes and was quite nearly unconscious when someone threw a wad of paper at my neck. It bounced into my lap and I uncrumpled it, smoothing the wrinkled note out over my knees. The word freak was spelled out cutely, in the neon colors of highlighters with accents of stars, flowers and little hearts. It could have been an advertisement for the prom, had it not been for the actual content of the projectile.

Sighing tiredly, I neatly folded up the paper and added it to my collection. There must have been at least twenty or thirty in all – a multitude of insults written with curlicues. The Back Row (home to the Pretty Elite) tittered smartly among themselves. Fisting my hands in the material of my skirt, I bit down hard on my lower lip and drew blood. Mildly interested, I rubbed at the offended area and drew my hand back for examination. There was a substantial amount of red smeared across my fingers and dripping down my chin.

"Oh my God!" My gaze searched to find the brainchild who screamed the exclamation. "Don't tell me you're a vampire too, bitch." I honestly couldn't believe that I got up in the morning for this. It had to be illegal.

McTeacherMan went through at least four emotions following the interruption. First, he was annoyed that he had to pause in his lecture, then he was angry because it was something I had done that caused the bimbo to shriek. When the word 'vampire' finally registered in his steroid-impaired brain, confusion made him contort his eyebrows. Finally he added two and two together and sighed in exasperation before sending me to the nurse.

Nurse Lady almost fainted when I walked into her office. I guess she wasn't used to having patients bleeding all over themselves. She muttered about stitches while handing me an ice pack. The frigid cold hurt my teeth, and Nurse Lady glared when I pulled it away from my mouth. I was tempted to ask her if she had any lethal injections, but knew it was stupid. I didn't need my suicidal tendencies broadcasted to the world. Nurse Lady clucked her tongue in disapproval when I didn't immediately replace the ice pack.

"Keep it in place." She jammed it into my mouth, and the back of my mouth burned at the contrast of hot and cold. I closed my eyes, hand moving up to cradle the side of my head. "Got a headache now, do you?" I nodded, opening my dull eyes. Nurse Lady looked nervously into the hall then closed the door. "I could get in a lot of trouble for this, so keep it quiet." She opened a cabinet, producing a bottle of medication. "Here." Two little pills fell into my hand and she handed me a small cup of water.

"Thanks."

She patted my cheek with a motherly smile and I caught a look at her name tag. Julie Morris. "I knew you could talk," she observed not unkindly. She let me stay for the rest of class, to insure that my lip didn't start bleeding again. When the bell rang for last period, she sent me on my way. I was almost out the door when she handed me a small scrap of paper. "Here, so your teacher doesn't get upset with you." It a pass, explaining to Mr. Teacher Man why I didn't return from the nurse's office. I tried to smile, but that hurt my mouth so I nodded instead. "Get going, Taxi." I didn't know she knew my name. I really wished I could have given her a smile.

Detention, in a word, sucked. Manly McManTeacher hadn't been pleased when I didn't return back to class after the vampire incident. His anger festered for the rest of the day until he looked almost ready to throw a desk at me – had it not been for the fact that said piece of furniture was school property and would therefore be deducted from his paycheck. To make matters worse (for me, anyway; I'm sure he was happier than happy that I was once again subject to his rage) I lost the explanatory note Julie generously wrote for me.

He snarled and spat for another minute or two while I sat at a desk in smack-dab center of the front row and stared at my hands. I was seriously considering taking a nap as I absentmindedly traced my fingers over the gouges and carvings decorating the false wood. Teacher McMan growled low in his throat when he realized I wasn't reacting to his angry tirades, nor would I ever react. I was untouchable. He retreated to behind his desk and grumbled as he pretended to grade papers.

My punishment was to copy every other word out of the dictionary. Where he found such a book was beyond me, as he taught math. It didn't even seem like suitable punishment. How would improving my vocabulary make me pay attention as he taught derivatives? With a disappointed sigh, I closed my eyes and watched black and white movies flit across the insides of my eyelids. Mr. Manly Teacher growled again and I blinked awake to refocus on him. He began pacing in the runway between my desk and his.

"I know your type," he raved and flung his arms around. I tilted my head curiously; I wasn't aware that I was a type. "You kids are all the same," Teachy-Teach spat and jabbed a finger in my direction. I dropped my gaze down to the desk. "You think you're so depressing! All you do is bitch about this country and brag about how you're gonna move to Europe," he turned around almost violently, "and make something of yourself! Well, lemme tell you, sister," his voice got dangerously low, "you're gonna be nothing. Your parents were nothing and you're gonna be just like them."

While he spouted more stereotypes about my age group, I tightened my hands into fists. Distorted, perverted pictures bloomed in my head. I felt Simon's hands on my hands as my mother cried about a vase I broke when I was only four. Julie poured a sea of pills from a small bottle, all the while ordering me in a solid voice to put on my seat belt, for Christ's sake. I squeezed my dead-leaf eyes shut and rubbed them almost violently with my palms. I bit down on my lip, accidentally disturbing the still-healing scab. I cupped my chin with my hands and stood up from the desk.

Teacher McManMan continued to yell, quite nearly in my face, with spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. He was getting redder and redder and was making less and less sense. Sighing softly, I shouldered my messenger bag and shuffled out of the room. My footsteps echoed eerily as I made my lazy way down the stairs. I was walking with hair in my half-closed eyes and it was no small wonder that I managed to safely stumble out the double doors without a broken ankle.

Auntie was waiting for me when I got home, an hour late, from school. She was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed and a frown on her face. It was the first time I had seen her look honestly displeased with me and I felt just the barest hint of guilt. She noticed the dried blood on my lip and chin and immediately got a wet paper towel. She asked if I got in a fight as she cleaned my face. I tried not to flinch away as I replied with a negative.

"Taxi, what happened then?"

"I bit my lip."

"I can see that," she commented with a touch of sarcasm. "It's still an awful lot of blood." The second observation was made mostly to herself. With a nod, she deemed me presentable. Before I could make my mistake, however, she spoke the dreaded words. "Taxi, sweetie, we need to talk." A dull ache hummed at the base of my skull and spread, like a malignant, warm honey, to congeal behind my eyes. In short, this was not good news. I regarded her with a suspicious hunch in my shoulders.

"I'm worried about you," was the admission she used to start our heart-to-heart. I shrugged and looked away, uncomfortable. "Sweetie, you're not talking much. And, your school called today." She reached out and stroked my hair. "They said you might have a drug problem." She was pleading, begging me for confirm of my innocence. All I had to do was say the words and she would believe me. "Taxi," her voice was tight with restraint. "Please, just talk to me."

"No."

She paused and narrowed her eyes slightly – it was a move my mother pulled and I had to look away from her double making that same expression. "No, you won't talk to me? Tax," she tried to cup my face but I turned away. "We can find someone that you can talk to, if you want. If you'd rather, I mean. A lot of kids your age go through this kind of problem, Taxi. You're not alone –"

"No, I'm not on drugs."

Auntie was relieved; I could see it in her face as a cloud was almost visibly lifted from her gray eyes. Her faith in me was endearing, if fractionally unsettling. The faculty of my high school (her daughter's high school!) had confessed a fear that I was dabbling with illegal contraband. Yet, she believed my single admission to the contrary and requested no proof. Nothing came to mind that I had done to be honored with such trust.

Nonetheless, I tried to take my exit but she stopped me with a word. "Wait." I paused but didn't turn around. "Why would they think you have a drug problem, then?" I sighed and rubbed my elbow. "Why would your classmates say such hurtful things about you?" I dropped my shoulders; why indeed?

There were so many reasons I could have given her. Kids at Sugar Maple High were bored with their neat little compartmentalized lives and needed a common enemy. They despised anyone different from them. Or, it was simply because they couldn't wrap their under-developed brain around the fact that I didn't want to be like them.

Instead, I shrugged and shuffled out of the kitchen, holding my messenger bag tightly in my hands. I pretended to be deaf when Auntie attempted to call me back because, apparently, we weren't done with that discussion. Ladies and gentlemen: Taxi Potter, conversationalist extraordinaire.

After I made my hasty retreat, I skittered to Jackie's room; it looked the same as the day I had moved in. I had declined the generous offer to repaint the pastel walls. Disregarding any homework due tomorrow, I dropped my messenger bag on the floor. It landed with a solidly dull thump. With a tired sigh, I reclined back on my cousin's bed and amused myself by opening and closing the trendy flip phone Auntie and Uncle bought me. Since I was going to be wandering around NYC, like all the rogue teens did those days, they thought it was appropriate that they should be able to contact me at all times.

There were nine numbers in my address book: Home, Auntie, Uncle, Uncle's work, Myca, Myca's house, Tobias, Simon and the Devine house. Frowning, I dropped the communication device onto my flat tummy – too flat, in my aunt's opinion – and covered my eyes with my cold hands. I couldn't remember the last time I had contacted my old friends.

Fifteen minutes passed before Auntie knocked on the door. I didn't move as she flounced into her daughter's room. I didn't need to look to know she was standing at the end of the bed. "C'mon little miss sleepy head," she shook my foot jokingly but her voice was serious. "You've been like this for almost two months now. Viviane's gone, honey, and she's not coming back."

She stroked my ankle soothingly. "There's nothing we could have done to save her, baby. It was just her time." I exhaled harshly through my nose when her voice cracked. "And she wouldn't have wanted you to waste away like this." Her tone took a sudden turn down smiley street. "So, I'm gonna leave you alone for ten more minutes and then we're going out to shop. Your uncle is working past dinner tonight, so we can grab some authentic New York pizza while we're out." She patted my ankle once and exited. It was her last ditch effort to save her sinking niece: the USS Taxi.

True to word, ten minutes later, she was back, gently prying my hands from my face. I opened my eyes and stared at her. She was smiling and clutching her purse like a life preserver. And people thought I had issues with grief. The back of my throat itched as I trailed after her out of the apartment and down the street. I hid my hands in the pockets of my baggy sweatshirt and absorbed my aunt's voice. It was still early in the evening so the streets had not yet been surrendered to the night crowd. However, some skimpily dressed teenage girls, just maybe a year or so older than me, were hiding just inside the shadows of the alleys. I shook my head sympathetically but made no other acknowledgment.

Auntie pointed out all of her and Jackie's favorite stores. Most of the displays were filled with faceless mannequins wearing floppy hats and dresses in the most outrageous shades of blue, yellow and green. Sighing to myself, I hunched deeper into my jacket. "I don't suppose any of this is really your style, is it?" I shrugged in obvious disinterest and Auntie quickly led me to a pizza parlor on the next corner. I bowed my head and let my hair fall in my eyes.

I watched the bubbles fizz and dance across the surface of my pop and tripped my fingers around the rim of the plastic cup. All pizza joints had the same kind – thick, oversized and deep red, so that any brown soda looked like blood. These were the things I considered as Auntie and I waited for our food. She was silent under the nearly comforting, mildly confining din of the other patrons. Behind her, at the counter, a redheaded woman was balancing five large pies. I stared, unblinking, as she struggled with a credit card. Someone should have been helping her. I should have been helping her. Maybe.

Sighing, I tore my paper napkin to shreds. My aunt picked at the sticky checkered table cloth and her shoulders sagged. Her mouth twitched into an imitation of a smile when the waitress set our plates down in front of us. The teenager told us, in a thick Brooklyn accent, to enjoy as she raised an eyebrow at the remnants of the napkin. Auntie thanked her and I shrugged to show my appreciation for the meal. We ate in silence and I almost managed to finish half my slice.

The walk home was quiet. Despite myself, I hunched closer to my aunt and watched the shadows warily. Her eyes flickered over my slightly huddled posture, but said nothing. I found myself, strangely, missing my aunt's chatter. I scratched at the inside of my elbow as she fished her keys out of her voluminous purse.

From the lit overhang, the unforgiving sidewalks looked even less welcoming than when we were traipsing about upon them. When she finally unlocked the door, my aunt stepped aside so I could walk in front of her. Our footsteps were intrusively loud in the stairwell; they bounced off the concrete walls like claps of thunder. Under the harsh light, my aunt looked old and ashen. I wanted to reach over and grab her hand, but the distance between our bodies made the gap seem unbridgeable. My eyes were itching a little in their sockets and my head was starting to ache again. I sighed deeply when we finally reached our floor.

Jackie's room felt foreign when I nudged open the door. The spilling light created a bright yellow rectangle in the otherwise shadowed atmosphere. I ducked inside as my aunt breezed past. Her jaw was set with determination but her eyes glistened wetly with tears. Behind the thin barrier of the wall, I heard her steps falter before she continued her brisk pace to the linen closet at the end of the hallway.

Clearing my burning throat, I eyed the desk on the other side of the room. A half-completed Creative Writing assignment was begging to be finished. In response to the paper's pleading, I shook my head. All of my work was coming out mediocre, clichéd and forced; I was really displeased with everything I had written so far. Mrs. Grant, my teacher, could tell. My marks were good enough, but she always wrote you can do better on everything she returned. I was avoiding the one topic I needed to cover – the one subject that would force me to literally bleed the words from my wrist.

I refused to write about my mother and the car crash that took her life. And, if I was to be honest with myself, it was probably the only thing I wanted to write. Everything else was menial, trivial, safe.

Making an unsatisfied noise, I picked up my discarded mp3 player from under the bed. I had converted the CD from Tobias to digital files and then transferred them to my player. About half the songs were by Alkaline Trio, which was his favorite band, and the rest were from a healthy selection of various other musicians. Some of the pieces were a little heavy for me while others were slightly forced in their lyrical delivery, but I appreciated the compilation as a whole. It reminded me of Myca and Tobias and, a little less these days, of Simon. I could turn up the volume and remember late summer nights we four spent just driving around.

I sat on the floor and folded my knees against my chest as the opening chords to a particularly brilliant Alkaline Trio song. Tobias had once attempted to teach me how to play it on the guitar, but my hands kept slipping. I'm meant for writing, I kept telling him, not strumming strings. While rolling his crystal blue eyes, Tobias reminded me that the pen, like the guitar, was just another instrument of art. Despite this, I was still unable to master the simple finger formations. Myca's giggling and Simon's teasing in the background probably helped very little as well.

With a desperate, unsteady sigh, I banished any thoughts of my friends. They were three hours away and I was three hours away and my head was still pounding. I bit down hard on my lower lip and worried over the barely healing scabs with my teeth. It stung and I tasted blood – unmistakable and metallically thick on my tongue. Exhaling through my nose, I scratched my fingers through my hair. I felt shaky, unbalanced and deprived. It had been weeks since I acknowledged myself – acknowledged that my school hated me or that I was tearing apart my own family or that my friends had forsaken me to a passive memory or that my mother was dead.

Violently, I tore myself off the ground and ripped my headphones from my ears. The mp3 player clattered to the floor. With an inhuman sob, I flung open the bedroom window. The pollution-flavored air was cool on my face, but I needed more. I hoisted myself onto the sill and dropped gracelessly to the fire escape landing below. Wincing as my bare feet disturbed the creaky grating and rickety stairs, I made my way stealthily to the roof.

The cement ledge was rough under my toes. The wind tugged gently at my loose clothes and played with my limp hair. From this vantage point, fifteen stories up, the city looked almost pretty; it was nothing like the gritty close up I experienced down on the sidewalks. Blurring lights on the streets below bled together, to form a river of sparks. Glowing squares of gold burned from countless office buildings. Desperately, I wanted to be a part of that shining world.

I didn't want to be burdened by lackluster writing, disappointed family members, distant friends, acidic classmates, sex-starved lovers. I wanted none of that. Humming gently, I closed my eyes and, with a sickly serene smile, I raised my arms like they were wings. I was ready to fly.

"Wouldn't do that, if I was you." A gruff voice offered suddenly from the shadows of the roof maintenance shed. I jerked my eyes open and twisted to look over my shoulder in surprise. And then, with my precarious balance upset, I slipped.

(Scene)  
>(End Chapter Three)<p>

Most of my old readers will note that I used the lyrics and opening lines as the second chapter originally, which puts this draft behind the first. I also totally rewrote the "meeting" (if you can call it that) scene. This will lead to better dialogue, if I even know what I'm doing these days. Don't worry, those of you who read the first version and want Tax to go through what she went through the original second chapter! Fear not – I haven't forgotten. Nor will I. (What's gonna be hilarious is if I actually omit that segment entirely.)

I don't own the lyrics used in the beginning of this chapter, nor do I own the turtles, Splinter-sensei, April or Casey. I own Taxi, her friends and her family. Oh, and her school. I own that too.


	4. Save Yourself

"...Call it a detour  
>Ugly and impure<br>Save yourself  
>Where is the life line<br>Here on the highline  
>Save yourself..."<br>_– Save Yourself; Tarkio_

For half of one comical moment, I was suspended in cold, life-stealing nothingness. My arms were still out-stretched, as if I had the ability to soar off into the distance. Hilariously, I flailed, fighting against the pure, dark air. Maybe there was something I could grab, but that was a ridiculous notion. Apartment complexes weren't designed to save the suicides with second thoughts.

And then, gravity took over.

Only, except, in a way – it didn't.

I was poised with the tips of my black painted toes barely brushing the concrete asphalt of the roof – frozen like a dancer in a distasteful ballet or a macabre marionette about to snap and shatter. The voice that so startled me had taken physical form and clenched its large – presumably male, by the size – hands around my slight middle. His grip was the only thing keeping me from meeting my mother once more, and I was grateful for it.

My tongue dried in my mouth and I silently worked my jaw as I tried to articulate my growing, all consuming panic. My rescuer was breathing heavily in my ear and he grunted as he tried to adjust his hold on me. His fingers – thick and calloused – dug painfully into my ribcage and I couldn't hold back the pained inhale. "Sorry," he muttered thickly and I shook my head in disregard. Some dozen bruises were well worth surviving to the morning.

I opened my mouth to tell him so, but the words go caught in my vocal cords as my feet spasmed and I lost my balance. My vision swam and the lights that had once seemed so far away, were all too suddenly, all too close. "Aw, shit," he cursed lowly when he felt me slipping and tightened his grip further. I tried to ignore my complaining bones as he apologized again, "sorry kid."

He pulled me back against his chest – hard – and the force sent us sprawling. We tumbled onto the roof and away from immediate death. The stranger landed on his back and lost his grip on me. I rolled for a few feet, scraping my face and arms on the rough gravel. He grunted as he got to his feet and offered no help while I struggled to my knees. Bits of rock were lodged in my raw palms; I winced as I tried to pick them out with my gnawed-down fingernails. The initial count of only a dozen bruises was a very small estimate for the night's injuries. My rescuer shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts and asked if I was okay. I sighed.

"I wasn't going to jump." He didn't believe me. I sighed again, feeling like a petulant teenager, and repeated earnestly, "I wasn't." He shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest with a skeptical scoff as he looked away. I took the chance to study my would-be savior and frowned. He wore a trench coat – not uncommon in New York City – and covered his face with a wide-brimmed fedora hat. In short, I could determine nothing about his physical appearance except that he was only a few inches taller than me, which was no big thing, as I broke five feet by only a meager two inches.

"What are you doin'," he gestured to the ledge, "up here, then? Ain't it past your bedtime?" A lit of a smirk flavored his voice and my eyebrows flinched in response. His tone bothered me. I rocked back and forth on my bare feet, flinching as the gravel dug into my bare soles. I rubbed my forehead with one fist and he cleared his throat. Apparently, he wanted an answer. Sadly, I had none to give. I never had any answers for anyone.

Lamely, I dropped my hand as I shrugged and fumbled for the words. "I was... enjoying the view." It was a weak response, one that my new friend seemed less inclined to entertain. He shook his head in obvious disgust.

"Whatever, kid. 'S long as you don't enjoy it too much." He seemed content to leave it at that and convinced himself satisfied that I would make no further roof diving attempts. His good deed done for the night, he made to leave by way of fire escape. I noticed the bulk attached to his back, a hump of sorts – perhaps some kind of pack. Maybe he was a homeless fellow who just happened to sleep on the tops of apartment buildings. Certainly, he must have been thinking this was the wrong night to pick this particular building.

"Wait," I blurted before I could stop myself. It was insane. I didn't usually talk to people. I avoided all dialogue and discourse; even Julie was lucky if she got more than three words from me. So why, now, did I feel the need to engage a potentially dangerous vagabond? Said ruffian seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he paused and considered me with faint disdain.

"What?" His voice was impatient, as if he was bored with me already – as if it wasn't his idea to approach me first.

"Don't you even want to know why I'm up here?" There was a brittle tint to my tone that I almost didn't recognize. I was actually pleading with an utter stranger to ask me about my life, while my aunt was just a few stories down, begging to be let into it. Nervously, I started chewing on my already nonexistent nails.

"You were enjoyin' the view," he threw my excuse back in my face with sarcasm, "and not considerin' suicide whatsoever." His accent was heavy – probably heavier than the waitress from earlier that evening. Had it really been just an hour or two ago that I was eating pizza with my aunt? Standing up here, conversing truths and not truths with a complete stranger that had just saved me from a botched suicide attempt, the oddly suburban scene of dinner at a pizza parlor seemed years in the past.

"I was lying," I admitted and scratched at my elbow. I ducked my head and my hair covered my face.

"About the suicide," he concluded smugly.

"No," I contradicted quickly as I looked up from my feet, "about the view. I didn't come up here to look at the buildings or the sky or... whatever." As I spoke, I studied the cityscape sprawling out in front of me. The poetry of the scene was gone. The breeze that was originally soothing and cleansing was now a chilling wind. I had left my jacket in my room and the night was not forgiving of my bare arms. With a shiver, I rubbed at my shoulders and felt dimly thankful that I was still wearing a bra under my shirt.

"Kid," he sighed, "it ain't my business what you're doing here. 'S long as you don't go jumping off buildings, you can do," he paused for effect, "or not do, whatever the hell you want." I nodded shakily and hugged myself tighter as the temperature dropped. "Kid – "

"Taxi," I interrupted him suddenly. "My name's not kid. It's Taxi." What a stupid thing to tell a stranger. It was a unique enough name that he could find out where I lived – obviously, somewhere in this apartment complex – and sneak into my room at night and God knew where that would go.

"Taxi," he repeated in amusement. I refrained from rolling my eyes; of course everyone and their dog found amusement in my name. It made walking around the sidewalks on the city a little difficult. Every so often, some businessman on a cellphone or woman overburdened by shopping bags would hail a cab, barking out my name in self-centered panic. After two months here, it was getting easier not to react. Not just to people seeking a cabbie's attention, but to everything – teachers, classmates, aunts and uncles. It was easier to stare at my shoes than look for whoever was so anxiously saying my name.

"Well, Taxi," he said with an audible smirk, "'s cold and you're not dressed for the season." He titled his head down a little, indicating my shoeless state. Shyly, I curled my bare toes and tightened my arms around myself even further. "So go on home. It's late. Don't you got school tomorrow?"

"It's Friday," I told him quietly. He made an exasperated, huffy noise and crossed his arms over his broad chest. As a particularly bitter blast wind blew across the rooftop, I whimpered and curled deeper into myself. The frigid cold cut through my meager t-shirt and, despite my hardest efforts, my teeth began to chatter.

"All right, Taxi Cab," he grunted, clearly exasperated with me. "Time for all good little girls and boys to be in bed. Or at least, inside," he stressed pointedly, "if they ain't intendin' to sleep." I bit my lip, wondering where all of this had come from. In the months that I had lived in the city, I had yet to say more than a dozen words in one sitting.

My rescuer of ill manner leaned his head forward a little, as if to urge me on my way. I stood frozen in place, my feet sticky with blood and my hands tucked against my sides. Something inside me broke at the use of my old, childhood nickname and I wanted to do anything to keep this person – this random, wonderful, disgruntled stranger – talking to me.

"What's your name?" I blurted and immediately felt stupid. He slowly but purposefully tilted his head to the left, like he was following through the motion of a particularly exaggerated eye-roll. "It's only fair," I stammered. When he didn't say anything, I started chewing on my lip again. "I told you mine."

"Not like I asked for it," he spat back. Ridiculously, my eyes started to tear up and, sucking in an embarrassed breath, I rubbed the heel of my palm across my cheekbone. "Oh, are you fucking kidding me? You're gonna _cry_ now?"

"Don't yell at me," I tried to shout, though it came out as a pathetic whine. The wind was still blowing my loose hair all about my head, and I sniffed heroically through the cold and sudden sadness. "Why'd you even stop me, anyway?"

"What, from steppin' off the roof of a goddamn building?" He sounded incredulous, as if he couldn't even believe what I was asking him. I nodded around my shivers and he snorted in frustration. "S'what I do. Help New Yorkers in distress and whatnot. Just another day on the job, keepin' you on your feet and not splattered all over the sidewalk."

"Glad I could help you fill your quota," I quipped back through clattering teeth and fought to keep my mind off my mother's broken, bleeding body and cracked, open bones. "Hope I didn't make it difficult for you," I muttered in my typewriter voice. He snorted again, in amusement this time, and shook his head. "And thanks." My arms were so cold, they felt like they were made of glass – fragile, sharp and all too bitter.

"Don't mention it," was the gruff, almost humble, response. He hunched into himself, bordering on shy, and I would've smiled if my lips weren't cracking with frost. "Get inside, Taxi." I nodded, mostly to myself, because he had turned away as soon as he issued the order. I tried to study his profile, but it was hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

His stare stretched over the skyscrapers, a mirror to my own gaze that bled over those bright lights so many minutes ago. Where my eyes had been starving and clawing, I imagine his were calculating and searching. "Go on," he told me again. My movements were jerky as I crossed the roof and climbed down the fire escape. I stood outside my borrowed room, motionless and listening until, finally, I heard gravel scattering under his rapidly retreating footsteps.

Gingerly, I climbed in through the window and sat on my cousin's bed. I put my head in my hands and tried to ignore the grimy, rusty footsteps tracking across Jackie's pastel, blue rug. For the first time since my mother died on the highway, there was no bassline playing on the inside of my skull. With a weary exhale, I let my body slump across the bed. Awkwardly, as if I didn't know how to move or contort my limbs, I curled into a ball, with my back facing my room and my eyes focusing on the wall. I fell asleep like that, filthy and bloody and feeling oddly content.

The next morning, the sun rose on a note taped to my window. I smiled as I read over the surprisingly neat writing. _Taxi, Try to stay off the roof from now on. Can't be there all the time. Raphael_

Under what I assumed was his signature – though I couldn't decide if it was his real name or not – was a drawing of what looked like an x formed by two upside down crosses. Though, I noticed with a slight frown, both the bisecting, horizontal lines each had two, smaller perpendicular lines – running parallel to the main stroke – attached. I squinted at the note for a moment before indulging in a small smile.

Feeling only a little ridiculous, I slipped the scrap of paper into the inside of my creative writing notebook. Something about having it constantly there for me – despite the ironic contradiction that posed, given the note's content – was a comfort. With a fond hum, I slipped the notebook back into my messenger back and returned to the bed.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, I rested my elbows on my knees and balanced my chin on my fists. Based on the quiet snippets of conversation drifting through the crack under my door, my aunt and uncle were awake. My stomach soured at the thought of trying to talk to them. After yesterday's debacle of a night out, I wasn't sure when I would feel like being in the same room as either of them. I curled my hands tighter until my nails bit harshly into the soft flesh of my palms. I sat like that for a while – maybe an hour – just staring at the floor in furious contemplation, until Auntie knocked on my door.

"Taxi," her voice came out muffled, and unsure, "do you want some breakfast?"

"I'm about to take a shower." I replied without inflection. She made some sort of a comprehending sound and her shuffling footsteps sent her on her way. After sitting on the bed for another ten minutes, I decided I may as well make good on my excuse. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, naked from the waist up, with my arms hanging limply at my sides. As I had predicted, there was a myriad of bruises covering my body – some on my shoulders and mid-back, one peeking out of the top of my sleep pants, and six very distinct, fingerprint smudges on my ribs. Two on either side of my front, just an inch or so below my breasts, and two, mirroring, on my back – right where my mysterious savior had held me.

Strange, I noticed as I blew hair out of my eyes, that there were only _six,_ instead of ten.

The rest of the weekend was spent lounging in my room – languishing, as my mother would have called it, before her body broke into a million pieces on the pavement – staring at the ceiling, and pretending that I wasn't waiting for more notes to appear on my bedroom window. Between fleeting glances at that tantalizing pane of glass, I looked around the room that both was and wasn't mine.

Even after living here for more than eight weeks, I hadn't done much to claim the space. My laptop sat on Jackie's old desk, next to a stack of notebooks and papers for school, and my meager wardrobe easily filled the modest chest of drawers my cousin left behind. My pop culture posters and photograph prints – all Myca Thompson originals – remained packed away. It was as if I was trying to pretend that this was all temporary. If I didn't mark the space as mine – didn't tack up the Alkaline Trio poster I bought at their concert two summers ago, didn't hang the still shot of me standing in the rain that plagued us all last winter – then I would eventually be freed from it.

I fisted my hands in my hair and tried breathing through my mouth. If my personal effects stayed where they belonged – tucked in a box, out of sight – then my mother would come back to life and we'd move back home. Bile rose in my throat and I choked it back; there had to be a way out of this isolation. How was it that I felt more of a connection with a trench coat wearing maniac than with my own family and friends? When was the last time I even _heard_ Myca's voice? I curled into a ball, biting down hard on a knuckle, and ignored my aunt knocking on my door.

Over time, the bruises healed and I was oddly sad to see them fade. They melted through the colors of the rainbow until all that was left was my own, translucently Nosferatu skin. I spent more time in front of the mirror than I had in my entire life, holding up my shirt and staring holes in my ribcage. Eventually, all the evidence that was left of that bizarre, wonderful night was the note tucked inside my notebook. Sometimes, even that wasn't enough to get me through my bland days.

I folded myself into a desk in the second row of Creative Writing. Mrs. Grant gave me a brief smile as I pulled out my pen and writing journal, and I hastened to return it. What came out was more of a bewildered, half attempt at a grin, but I was proud of myself for connecting with someone outside of my own head. She nodded at me and ducked out of the room – presumably to talk to another teacher or something equally educational. Bored, I tapped the capped tip of my pen against a blank page in my journal as I read over Raphael's note, for what could arguably be the thousandth time.

One of the male members of the Pretty Elite – it left me astounded every time I remembered that he was voluntarily taking this class – dropped a folded piece of paper on my desk as he shuffled past. Rolling my eyes, I carefully opened the note and had to bite back hard on a spastic bark of laughter. Written in bright pink and orange highlighter was the word 'kunt'; surrounding the vulgarity was an array of neon blue and green stars. Taking a deep breath, I turned around to face my not-so-secret, not-so-admirer.

"Hey," I said in a low voice. He immediately looked up, with a surprised expression on his usually stupidly blank face. It was the first time I had ever spoken to him and, given what I had to say, it would probably be the last. "You misspelled the word cunt."

"What," he grunted in a voice to match his face. "What the fuck did you say?"

"Your note," I picked it up and shook it for emphasis. His eyebrows furrowed, as confusion gave way to slow comprehension. "You misspelled it. Cunt starts with a 'c', not a 'k'." I paused and took another deep breath to stave off my growing urge to laugh in his face. "Hence why it's called the c-word."

"What's the difference, bitch," he sneered in an attempt to gain control of the conversation. His own ally – a redheaded girl, also hailing from the Pretty Elite – looked on in vicious, supportive interest. "Means the same thing."

"Not really," I admitted before I could stop myself. Our discussion was quickly gaining the attention of our fellows – partly because everyone enjoyed watching my reaction when I received one of these letters, and also because it was the first time I had ever reacted to receiving one of these letters. "Cunt with a 'k' means nothing, besides you're," I said pointedly, "an idiot."

"The hell did you call me? Say that again, bitch." I rolled my eyes and glanced, briefly, at the redhead. Her stare was narrowed and focused entirely on me. No matter what happened the next few minutes, my life at Sugar Maple High was about to get a lot more complicated. Suddenly, I found myself thinking of Myca and what she would want me to do.

"I called you an idiot," I enunciated with a sarcasm that would have made my absent friend proud. "Which, to be honest, is a lot less offensive than what you tried to call me."

"You fucking cunt –" He growled and started to get out of his desk. I did my best to look disinterested, even though a small thrill of fear danced in my stomach. Shaking my head, I stamped it out. _Think like Myca,_ I reminded myself and licked my lips and I dragged my eyes up to meet his anger.

"Cunt spelled with a 'c' or a 'k'?" The question sounded polite, but it was really just my smooth delivery. I figured, somehow, that if I was going to have the Pretty Elite murdering me after school, I was at least going to deserve it.

"That's enough!" Mrs. Grant's voice cut through the impending violence like a knife. I twisted around to face her and realized that the entire class really was watching. Vultures. "What is going on here?" My mouth shut with a hard snap as the redhead started spinning some story that, inevitably, blamed me for everything. How was it possible for an _entire_ student body to scapegoat one person?

"Miss Summers," Mrs. Grant interrupted the redhead – Girlname Summers – with a sharp glare. "While it's both admirable and distressing to watch you try and defend your _friend,_" she stressed the word to make it sound like something nasty, "I have been in the room for the entirety of the conversation." Summers instantly deflated in her chair.

"As for you, young man," Mrs. Grant stared down the idiot, "you have detention everyday for the rest of this week." I felt oddly championed – it was a Monday, so that made five detentions and no other teacher who had witnessed the Pretty Elite gifting me with their letters ever tried to dole out punishment. "Now apologize to Taxi."

He grunted out a barely audible 'I'm sorry,' but it wasn't as if I was going to get anything better out of him, so I took it with a jovial, finger wiggling wave. His eyes promised death, and Summers's stare promised torture, but it was worth it. Whatever they did to me, it was going to be worth finally opening my mouth against these worthless wastes of space. Every morning leading up to this moment, I had woken up wondering why I even bothered to get out of bed, and here it was. I was finally given the chance to speak up, and I took it. Turning back around to face my notebook, I read over Raphael's note again, and smiled. In some strange, delusional way, I thought that he would be proud of me.

(Scene)  
>(End Chapter Four)<p>

I'm not sure how I feel about Taxi's conversation with Raphael, but there it is. I definitely like it more than the original meeting scene, that is for sure. Hope you got from my awkward description that he signed his note with a scribble of his sai. I don't own any of the TMNT canon characters – just Taxi and her ilk.

Sorry for the delay - I was on vacation with my family. But I'm back now.


	5. For Real

"...Some nights I thirst for real blood  
>For real knives<br>For real cries  
>And then the flash of steel from real guns<br>In real life  
>Really fills my mind..."<p>

– _For Real; Okkervil River_

As the day wore on, my bravado gave way to grave reality. I had done a very, very stupid thing – angering the Pretty Elite – and I was quickly regretting it. While I had always been on their radar as a nuisance, a pest, an object of ridicule, they mostly left me alone. They hissed cruel comments, wrote menacing messages, but the physical violence was limited to errant elbows in the hallway – annoying, but not life threatening. Now, however, I had crossed a line. I had called out a major player in front of a teacher, with an entire class watching, and I couldn't imagine they would let me get away with it.

I spent my lunch half hour sitting in Julie's office, as had become my habit over the weeks. At first, I was worried that she would try to make me talk, but she didn't. She told me she was glad for the company, and I nodded silently as I offered her a potato chip. In return, she gave me a cookie she baked the previous night. Our relationship became easy; I would offer her some processed snack from my lunch, and she would gift me with some home-made confection.

Today, though, my lunch sat untouched on the corner of her desk. I clasped my water bottle between my hands, and stared down at its label depicting a mountain stream weaving between a few overly bright evergreens. With a sigh, I scratched at one of the trees with my thumbnail. Julie watched me out of the corner of her eye as she filled out some form.

"Are you all right, Taxi?" She asked as she handed the form to some office assistant to return to the principal. "You're awfully quiet," Julie paused and I tilted my head in question. "Well, quieter than usual." I tried my best to force a smile, but it all came out wrong, and she made a sympathetic noise. "Does this have something to do with what happened in Creative Writing?"

My eyes widened involuntarily, and Julie grinned. "How...?"

"How did I know?" She asked and popped the lid off a small plastic container full of grapes. I shook my head when she held the dish out to me. "Well, believe it or not, but we teachers do talk to each other sometimes." Trying – and failing – to not look nervous, I pursed my lips slightly and she took that as permission to continue. "Stephanie, well, Mrs. Grant to you, told me about what happened. Are you all right?

"What do you mean?" I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

"The word that boy called you – it's a very hurtful word." She spoke slowly, as if I was a child, and I nodded my head back at her, as if she was a small child. "It didn't bother you, that he said that?"

"He didn't say it. He wrote it. In a note. And," I took a sip of water, "it's not the first time someone's called me a cunt." She flinched, as if hearing it physically hurt her, and I immediately felt bad. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"It's all right," Julie said in a voice that implied that it was, in fact, not all right. She ate a grape, chewed it carefully, like she was chewing over her next thought. "You kids," she didn't sound apologetic for calling me a kid, "forget, sometimes, the power of words. Words like that – the c-word and the f-word and the n-word – have a dangerous kind of power. What he called you – cunt – is especially hurtful for women."

She looked up from her desk with a sad smile. "It means," Julie paused again and I scratched at my bottle's label some more. "Calling you that means that all he thinks you're good for is being fucked," her face didn't change, which led me to believe that she actually used the dreaded f-word outside of school, "and having babies. So," her smile became bright and she stared me directly in the face, "how do you feel?"

"Um." I put my bottle on the corner of her desk, next to my untouched lunch, and started playing with the fraying edges of my long-sleeved shirt. "Um. Angry, I guess?" Julie waited, ate another grape, as I picked over my words cautiously. "I'm... worth more than being fucked and having babies."

"Damn right, you are."

The rest of the day passed by both slowly and quickly. I spent most of it with my mouth shut, perhaps because of what Julie had said to me – words were important, after all, I shouldn't waste them – and because I had absolutely nothing to say. The label on my water bottle was scratched completely to white by the end of last period, and I tossed it in a recycling bin as I made my way to my locker. I stood with my arms crossed as I scanned over my text books, trying to decide what I needed to bring home. Not that it mattered, as I never did my work. The hall emptied around me, and I was unprepared for the blow when it came.

A burst of pain – bright, colorful and loud – exploded from my left temple and I couldn't stop myself from staggering to my knees. Stars sparked behind my eyes and I balanced one hand against the tile floor as I cradled the side of my head with the other. Squinting, I stared up at whoever had assaulted me. There were four of them – Girlname Summers, from Creative Writing, and three unnamed boys I vaguely recognized – all from the Pretty Elite. One of the boys was holding a text book, no doubt his weapon of choice. Girlname got to her knees next to me, with a faux-sympathetic pout on her sociopath's face.

"You got my friend in trouble," she cooed and reached up to tangle her poison red painted nails in my hair. She pulled – hard – and I hissed in pain. "I don't like it when my friends get in trouble," she continued to simper as she tightened her grip, "especially because of little _whores_ like you." With one final, vicious jerk that ripped a good handful of hair out of my scalp, she released me. I shook my head, my eyes filling with tears, as I rubbed against my scalp. She turned to her bodyguards – not that she needed any – with her hands on her hips. "Take care of this bitch." With a deceptively sweet smile, she made her perfumed way down the stairs.

Already gasping in pain, and nauseous from the blow to the head – probable concussion, a distant voice mumbled almost incoherently – I barely struggled as two of the boys pulled me to my unstable feet. Had there been anything in my stomach, it would've been splattered all over their shoes. As it was, my empty tummy churned and I heaved as the third boy punched me, solidly, in the stomach. I tried to curl in on myself, as tears dripped down my cheeks, but their solid grips on my arms stopped me. My lungs burned around my panicked breath, and I clenched my eyes shut. The one that punched me gripped my chin in one hand.

"Why _the fuck_ did you even come here, cunt?" Before I could reply, he backhanded me across the face. My lip split open and I tasted blood. "There has got to be a better school for you." My stomach hurt, my chest hurt, my cheek and jaw hurt, but the pain wasn't enough to stamp out the sudden indignation at hearing that word – for the second time – directed at me. I suddenly understood what Julie meant, about that particular term having so much power. I could hear it, in this idiot boy's voice, that all he saw me as was a useless thing, barely worth even fucking.

"You can't call me that," I stumbled over the words, as blood ran down my chin. "You don't get to call me that. I..." My vision blurred for a moment, but I shook my head, "I am more than something to be fucked. I am so much more than that." The one who had been hitting me took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. My chin dropped to my collar bone and I coughed, spitting blood onto the tile floor.

"What the hell is she talking about?" The question was addressed to his companions – one of whom shrugged – and he rolled his eyes. "What the goddamn fuck ever. Put her to bed." For one paralyzing moment, I thought they were going to murder me. When did it get this bad? What did I ever do to these people? I tried to struggle against them, fighting weakly as I waited for the killing blow. Instead, they dragged me partially out of the way so that we weren't in the way of the boy who smacked me around. I watched, dimly, as he emptied out my locker. Random books and papers went flying as he shoved them to the floor.

He stepped aside and the two faceless, voiceless goons folded my arms into my sides and shoved me into my locker. They slammed the door shut with a metal clang before I even realized what was happening. This was my coffin. The thought crossed my mind, a barely burning epiphany of self-destruction, as the boys' self-congratulatory laughter faded down the stairs. My head hurt like none other – a throbbing, nauseating patch of tender flesh – and it made it hard to put any coherent idea together. Ironically, the darkness helped ease the pain behind my eyes, and I let my lids slide shut.

This was it. I would die here, all wrapped up and bloody, I acknowledged as I awkwardly tucked my fists under my chin. Time for bed, they had told me. I would die like my mother, in a coffin, alone and abandoned and it was all my fault. It was my fault I was dead and it was my fault that she was dead. Coughing weakly, I slumped forward to press my hot, sweaty forehead against the cooled metal of the locker door. "Don't worry, Momma," I whispered around my swollen lip, "I'll be home soon..."

A few hours later – it must have been hours – I jumped awake. I inhaled sharply and immediately started listening for whatever had woken me. It was coming from outside the locker, the barest hint of music playing. Sagging forward, I shut my eyes. What the hell was that? "_Hey there sleepy smile... I see you brought your bedroom eyes..._" I hummed along, recognizing it as an Alkaline Trio song. On a whim, I had set the tune as the ring tone for my phone. Phone! I started again and cussed, loudly, as I banged the back of my head into the inside of the locker. Someone was calling me. It must have been late if I was being summoned by cell.

Squinting me eyes, I tried to see, but there was precious little light and the darkness that had seemed so soothing was now suffocating. I grit my teeth and felt blindly at the panel in front of me, before jerking my hand protectively back to my chest. I had caught my fingers on the metal lock contraption on the inside of the door, and they were bleeding. I could feel the warm liquid running over my knuckles. Licking my lips – and ignoring the pain of my busted mouth – I took a deep breath and tried to find calm.

A panic attack was growing in my chest and I couldn't it hold it off for long. Despite the holes and cracks in the locker's design, I felt my ribcage tighten around my lungs. Asphyxia taking hold, I began pounding my fists and clawing my nails at the metal. Whatever air was left in my body went to screaming. "Let me out!" I shrieked, my voice torn to shreds in my hysteria, "please please please, let me out!" Tears slid down my cheeks and all of my fingers were bleeding but I wasn't going out like this.

The screams kept coming, incoherent accusations and condemnations ripped from my throat as I fought with all my might. "What is wrong with you? I didn't do anything!" I kicked hard, with the soles of my shoes, pounding and pounding against the flimsy metal. "I didn't do anything! Let me out you sons of bitches!" With one, final, triumphant strike, the door gave under my violence. What happens when an unmovable object meets an unstoppable force? The unstoppable force explodes emotion and flails all over the unmovable object until the unmovable object breaks apart and the unstoppable force self destructs.

I tumbled onto the floor, collapsed on all fours, and I drank in mouthfuls of air. Pathetically, I slid to the ground and curled up on my left side. My head was pillowed in the crook of my outstretched arm and I struggled to focus on my blood crusted fingers. Somehow, I kept breathing – the rhythmic inhale and exhale of the barely sewn together consciousness – as I watched my fingers twitch. There was a tear in my shirt, revealing scraped, angry skin, and my nails were torn, jagged and raw. I breathed deep the smell of blood and weakly brought my right hand up, from were it limply lay across my stomach, to wipe at my nose.

Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt.

With a grunting moan, I forced myself to sit up. There were tracks of blood painted on the floor, and great, raking stripes of red inside the locker. Papers were scattered everywhere around me – a sea of half-crumpled, half-finished assignments – and I spied my Creative Writing notebook in the wreckage. Crawling over to it, I gingerly flipped open the cover to check to see if Raphael's note survived. Thankfully, it was still safely tucked inside, worn only from my repeated readings. With equal care, I closed the notebook and held it to my chest with one arm as I struggled to my feet. I left a bloody hand print on its glossy cover.

My messenger bag wasn't far away – tossed a few feet down the hall – and my cell was right next to it. I nudged my phone back into the bag, checked for my wallet and keys – both were present – and slid my Creative Writing journal safely inside. I had what I needed; everything else was useless – textbooks, homework, all of it – and I left it behind.

I staggered down the stairs, balancing one hand one the wall while the other clutched the strap of my messenger bag. A line of smeary, red hand prints trailed along behind me in my wake, but I ignored them in favor of staring at my blurry feet. I was preoccupied with not pitching ass over tea kettle down the stairs, but a small part of me, that was slowly growing bigger, was morbidly proud of the artwork I was leaving all the floors and walls of my school.

I was making my mark – Auntie would be so proud. No one was going to forget Taxi Potter in a long time, that much was true. I bounced my abused body against the door at the bottom of the stairs, and it flung open. The cool, night breeze was refreshing on my heated, bloody face and I took a moment to just breathe in the chilled air. It helped to steady my head a little, and I inhaled deep to let the crisp oxygen curl in my lungs. I tasted the dampness of fresh rain on my tongue and, sure enough, the asphalt under my feet was shimmering wet. Coughing, I wiped my chin against my cloth covered forearm and hesitantly ducked my head out of the alley. The street was mostly empty, save for a van parked next to an electronics store one block down, and I nodded to myself.

My aunt and uncle's apartment complex was maybe twenty minutes away from school, if I walked fast. Tonight, however, I was willing to take it slow, and I picked my way carefully over the sidewalk. My head was still killing me, but it wasn't keeping me from putting one foot in front of the other. I glanced at the electronics store as I passed, and stopped short. A group of shadowy figures – men, most likely, judging by their bulk – was moving back and forth, from the shop's door to the van. They were all carrying boxes.

"Are you serious?" I whispered to myself as I watched the robbery play out in front of me. Without looking away, I started blindly fishing in my bag for my phone. In retrospect, I should have moved away from right in front of them before trying to call the police, but I was operating under the influence of a concussion. Before I could even get my phone to my ear, two of the thugs broke away from the pack and stood on either side of me. Cornered and already defeated, I pocketed my cell and let my hands hang limp.

"What the hell happened to you?" The guy on my left asked when he got a good look at me. Mussed hair, torn clothes, streaks of dried blood on my face and hands – I painted a very pretty picture of mugging victim. "Man, check her out." He put his huge hands on his wide hips and laughed, a deep, menacing belly laugh. A dragon tattoo curled around his left bicep.

"Tonight just ain't your night, sweetheart," the one of my right commented as he crossed his arms. He was smaller than his partner, but he wasn't harmless. His eyes were sharp, and he had a long scar running along his jaw line. Like his friend, he had a dragon tattoo, though his was on his right forearm.

"I won't tell anyone," I mumbled and immediately stared at my scuffed, ratty shoes. I shouldn't have looked at them – who knew what these guys would do to me, now that I could ID them for the cops? "Please, just let me go." I couldn't keep my voice from cracking.

"Won't tell anyone what," Mr. Left asked without asking. Mr. Right glanced over his shoulder, presumably to take cues from his boss. I was having a hard time keeping my vision from doubling.

"That I saw you stealing." It was almost impossible to form a coherent sentence at this point. "Please, I..."

"Now, that's just rude." Mr. Right smiled and leaned in close to me, like he was going to put his arm around my shoulder. "We're not stealing."

"We're taking inventory," Mr. Left supplied with a bark of his unsettling laughter. "We got a lot of overnight deliveries to do." I shook my head, over and over, as I tried to find a retort. My head was filled with cotton – burning, stinking cotton – and my eyes were covered in static. "Oh, you don't believe us, babe?"

"Nah, she's smarter than that," interrupted a new, yet somehow familiar, voice. "She got it right the first time." I tried to blink, but it was damn near impossible to lift my eyelids once they closed. Staggering, I bumped my back into the alley wall and fell with a quiet thump. Everything was exploding with too-loud noise – shouts of pain, cries of elation, the tell-tale thuds of successful flesh-on-flesh blows – and I drew my legs to my burning chest. It hurt to breathe, and I could taste blood on my teeth and smell it inside my nose. I rested my feverish forehead on my knees and couldn't help but think that, if I got home, I was going to be in so much trouble. I almost started laughing at the absurdity.

Silence fell, and I was still wondering how it was possible to hurt too much to laugh – or smile – but there I had been since my mom died. Too hurt to laugh or smile or live. I sucked in a gasp as a particularly sharp pain twinged under my skull. Someone knelt next to me, and I raised my bleary head but it all came out vaseline smudged and grimy. "Are you okay?" He – I could tell it was a he, at least – sounded so damn familiar to me. "Taxi, look at me, babe." Everything tilted to one side and I went with it, spinning and stumbling into darkness.

Waking up was slow; my consciousness returned in bits and pieces. The first thing I noticed was my hands – they were stiff and itchy and I couldn't bend my fingers. With my eyes still shut, I felt gently at my swollen lip with the tip of my tongue. It was tender, but no longer bleeding. Small miracles. My face and neck no longer itched of dried blood – someone had taken the care to clean me up, at least. Sighing, I drowsily brought a hand up to my temple. My eyes snapped open when my fingers encountered a thick patch of gauze. I hadn't even realized my head was bleeding.

Regardless, whoever had cleaned away the blood had also tended to my injuries. My hands had been cleaned and wrapped in stark, white bandages. I carefully forced myself to sit up and look around. I was in some sort of clinic or operating room. There was even an autoclave installed in the far wall. I looked down at my feet – which dangled a good few inches off the ground – and saw that they were bare. I wiggled my still black painted toes in contemplation. Someone had taken off my shoes and socks.

Feeling suddenly sick, I frantically scanned the room for them. I felt defenseless and strangely naked without them. There was no way of knowing where I was; this wasn't a standard medical facility and I had no idea what was beyond this room. I spotted my socks and shoes over by the door, along with my messenger bag. Bracing myself, I slid off the gurney-esque examination table and almost immediately collapsed. My legs buckled and I moved to catch my weight on my elbows. I tried to steady myself by leaning back against the examination table, but it rolled out from under me. I landed hard, on my ass, on the concrete floor, and couldn't help the startled cry of pain.

I sat there, breathing hard to hold in my whimpers, and did my best not to move. The thug was right – it really wasn't my night. Was it even night anymore? God, what would my aunt and uncle think? Had they tried calling me, or had they given me up to the city? It would really figure if they had. No more than I deserved. "For fuck's sake," I whispered cruelly when I felt tears well up behind my eyes. Sniffing, I rubbed a harsh hand across my face, angry that I couldn't keep myself from crying. "For fuck's sake!"

"Such harsh language to come from one so young," observed a wise, aged voice. My heart jumped into my throat as I turned to face the door – I hadn't even heard it open. My panic didn't abate when I saw who had addressed me. A giant rat, easily over four feet tall, stood cautiously in the doorway; he wore dark brown robes and held a walking stick in one hand. I stared openly from where I was sprawled, frozen, on the floor and he twitched his whiskers in annoyance. "How are you feeling?"

"Am I hallucinating?" I asked in a small voice and he smiled kindly at me. "I hit my head pretty hard," I muttered, thinking about the book that had been smashed into my skull, "and hallucinations come with concussions, don't they?"

"They can," he agreed, with an amused smile, "but I am not a hallucination. And," he began before I could ask another question, "you are not dreaming. You are awake and I am real." I felt a little light headed, and I took a deep breath. He waited, patiently, shifting to rest both his hands on his walking stick.

"Not a costume?" I tried, even though I knew that he looked too real to be a man wearing a giant rat costume. He shook his head, still grinning, and I nodded weakly. "Right, of course," I paused, closing my eyes briefly against my confusion, "not to be rude, but." I looked at him and he gestured for me to continue. "Ah, how?"

"A genetic mutation, of sorts," he replied with nonchalance. "My son Donatello has a much more in depth explanation, but that is the simple answer." I hummed, like I understood, and that was the end of it. I was having an intelligent conversation with a giant rat, who sounded old enough to be my grandfather. A giant rat who had sons, apparently. It was all too much. Squinting against another wave of dizziness, I sucked in a breath and brought a hand to my forehead. "Are you all right?" He crossed the room to kneel beside me.

"Yeah, I –" with a groan, I clenched my eyes tight and grit my teeth, "I just feel really sick. My head hurts like a bitch." He made a displeased noise, either at my pain or my cursing, and patted my shoulder awkwardly. His hand was warm.

"I will fetch Donatello – he is much more skilled at this than I am." He paused and his voice took on a warning tone. "I should inform you, however, that his appearance is just as unusual as mine." I couldn't help the sardonic laughter.

"Another rat?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light. Was there a whole society of rat-people living somewhere? Where was I, anyway? So many questions, so little answers lost to head trauma.

"Turtle," he corrected gently. Of course, this Donatello guy was a turtle. What else would he be? I giggled, borderline hysterical. "I will return soon, miss."

I couldn't tell if that was an implied request for my name, but I gave it anyway. "Taxi. My name's Taxi Potter," I smiled through the insects buzzing in my skull. "Thank you for helping me." To the rat's credit, he didn't make any comment about the uniqueness of my name.

"You are most welcome, Miss. Potter. And you may call me Master Splinter." He pushed up from the floor and left the room. Taking a deep breath, I mustered the strength to struggle to my feet. I was long past due to come home and surely, my aunt and uncle were looking for me. At the very least, they must have called me a few times. Stumbling, I barely managed to sit down before collapsing, and I reached for my bag. At some point during the night, the strap had been torn. With a sentimental frown, I tied the two ends together and tugged to test the strength of the knot. It would hold until I could get a new one.

It was time to face the inevitable. I blindly dug for my phone and unearthed it from the very bottom of my messenger bag. I had three text messages: one from my aunt asking me where I was; one from Myca also asking me where I was, though in less polite language than Auntie; and one from Tobias asking me where I was, and telling me that my aunt and Myca were looking for me.

Shaking my head, I switched over to voice mail. My aunt left one message, calmly asking me to check in with her when I got the chance because she thought I was supposed to be home, but maybe she was confused. The next message, an hour or two later, was also from my aunt. She sounded a little more panicked as she shakily informed my phone that she was calling Myca and, whatever I was doing, she wasn't mad, just concerned. The next, and final, message had me jerking my phone away from my head in shock.

"Where in the _goddamn hell_ are you? Your aunt has been blowing up my phone like none other cause you're out doing FUCK KNOWS WHAT and she hasn't got a shittin' clue where you are!" I winced as Myca's voice, shrill with impatient anger, assaulted my eardrums. "I got enough to handle _here_ without you losing your idiot self in NYC, Taxi Potter. Get your damn slut self found, and call me! For fuck's sake!" With that final exclamation, she hung up the phone.

I exhaled a rush of air and raised my eyebrows. I knew, under all that vulgarity and vitriol, Myca was worried about me, and it was nice to hear her voice – even if it was screaming and cursing me to the event horizon and back. It had been far too long since we talked. It was troubling, though; I wondered what she meant by saying that she had enough to handle here – back home, assuming. Something was certainly going on, and she needed to tell me about it.

The sound of approaching footsteps had me stuffing my phone back into my bag. There would be time to call her later. I sat with my hands limp in my lap as Master Splinter returned with a giant turtle. He was taller than me, most definitely, and had a purple headband tied around his eyes. A wooden staff peeked out from his shell. My head had started throbbing in earnest and I blinked dully up at him, hoping that he would be able to help with the pain.

"Hullo," I greeted him weakly. He smiled cautiously at me, and replied in kind. Like Splinter, he was an odd combination of human and animal – though, it looked like he took more of his appearance from the turtle side of the family. "Do you have anything for a headache?"

"Of course. Can you stand?" Slowly, I complied and rose to my feet, making sure to move deliberately, so I didn't end up on my ass again. Instinctively, I reached for Donatello to steady myself and he carefully gripped my elbow with one hand. The other settled in the polite area of the middle of my back.

"Thanks," I mumbled and leaned into him. His eyes widened in surprise as he took more of my weight. "My name's Taxi," I introduced myself through gritted teeth. Master Splinter, satisfied that we had the situation – that is, the situation of my own failing body – under control, took his leave of us.

"Donatello," he offered needlessly as he watched Splinter go, "but you can call me Don or Donnie. Now," he helped me sit down on a simple office chair. "I'll get you something for your head."

"Thanks, Donatello," I said again as I watched him dig through a medicine cabinet. Both he and Master Splinter were treating me like I was something fragile or delicate – as if I was going to faint at any moment. To be fair, it wouldn't have been a surprise if I suddenly lost consciousness, though, that would be due more to the head injury than emotional upset. Maybe it was because my own species seemed hellbent on discarding me, but I felt oddly comfortable in the company of these – for lack of appropriate vocabulary – mutants. To be fair, that could have been the head injury talking.

"Here," Donatello held a plastic bottle of pills in one hand and a paper cup of water in the other. "Extra Strength Tylenol," he supplied as I shook out two pills and swallowed them with a gulp of water. "It should help with the concussion. Actually," he muttered to himself as he started searching through the medicine cabinet again. "Let me check your eyes, okay?"

"Ah, okay," I agreed quietly, setting the little paper cup on the counter. After a second or two, Donatello triumphantly held up a penlight. I sat with my hands in my lap, my eyes unnaturally wide, as he tested my ability to respond to light. With a satisfied nod, he stepped back and replaced the pen light and pill bottle in the medicine cabinet. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes to clear away all the dark, dancing spots from my vision.

"Well, Taxi, everything seems to be okay. You can sit in here and rest until your head feels better." I nodded, my hands still resting between my knees, and stared up at the turtle. "When you're up to it, you can meet the rest of the family."

"Rest of the family," I parroted curiously. Donatello nodded enthusiastically with his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, me and my brothers."

"Brothers," I couldn't help but repeat. What exactly had I gotten myself into?

(scene)

(End Chapter Five)

Ah, this is chapter is about a page and a half longer than all the others. Oh well. The ending is a bit awkward, but if I let it go, it would go for another ten pages. Gotta space it out somehow! I don't own the song at the beginning – which is an excellent song, by the by – or anything canon to the turtle 'verse.


End file.
